This Is How It Ends
by GazingUpAtTheMoon
Summary: "You're going to have to make it a kill shot" Clarke makes a shot, but not to kill. Now she and Bellamy have to live with the consequences of her actions and of the hatch door not opening.


**Authors Notes:** Please note this story includes: suicide, mentally abusive relationship, self destructive behavior, dark themes, and a boatload of angst.

This is probably the darkest angsty-est fic I have ever written. It is what would have happened had Bellamy failed to open the hatch door and let Octavia and the Grounders in. This is life in the bunker with just Skaikru, and how everyone copes. Spoiler alert, it does not end well. And if you're expecting happy Bellarke, this is not the fic for you.

* * *

She shoots him in the leg.

It's not the kill shot he had haphazardly dangled in her face nor is it anywhere near how she wanted this all to end. It was the only option she saw, the only option that got her what she wanted as well as Bellamy. But, the moment the bullet entered his flesh and he curled towards the floor, she knew it was over before it began.

Clarke would never have Bellamy the way she wanted, not after this.

Her heart had stopped when he tumbled down the ladder, his groan large and painful when his body connected with the cement floor. Clarke was frozen in place, starring at what she had done. Not really believing what she had done. But there Bellamy lay, curled and pathetic with blood seeping through the bullet wound in his leg. His eyes met hers. Horrified. Broken. Shocked. Angry.

The wound kept Bellamy in the infirmary for two weeks. Two weeks were he refused to speak to anyone. Not her, not Miller, no one. He just lay in bed, starring into nothingness. His anger was hot and thick and suffocated the small space he took up. It made Clarke's lung burn. It created a thick shell around him, protecting him from the people he thought he could trust. (Protecting him from her)

Bellamy had wanted his sister and Clarke had denied him. The one person who he loved more than life, Clarke had taken away.

She imagined a life where she hadn't shot him. Where Bellamy had opened the hatch door, and Octavia had come down with a crew of Grounders at her back. That somehow they had made it all work. That they survived the Death Wave together.

It was one of the happier dreams Clarke had.

The majority of them were nightmares, plagued with death and sadness. Of people who counted on her dying. Of their faces. Of every mistake she ever made since coming down to Earth that lead to this moment. But mostly, of what she had done to Bellamy.

There would be no forgiveness for this action. No matter how much time passed.

But Clarke no longer hoped for such impossible things. There would be no forgiveness for the things she had done. The people she betrayed. Octavia. Kane. Indra. Hundreds of Grounders who she promised she'd save. And the hits just kept coming.

Raven had radioed in, requesting help. Monty and Harper did the same.

There was no help to be had.

Getting to Raven was impossible. Letting Monty and Harper into the bunker too. Both of those things meant opening the hatch door. (The door she had shot Bellamy for). Helping them meant inviting the wrath of the Grounders. Though Clarke didn't have to make this decision by herself, she knew she was the most guilty of them all. She had come up with the plan to begin with, after all. She needed to accept the consequences that came with it. _All_ the consequences.

3 more friends she couldn't save. 3 more betrayals. 3 more bullets to her already dying heart.

Clarke didn't know how Bellamy reacted to the news when he finally found it out. He avoided her like the plague. She did the same. Though, she was sure, his hatred for her only burned brighter.

She tried to keep herself busy. It helped, if she wasn't paying too much attention to the darkness of her mind, and there was plenty enough to do. Jaha and she took over leadership, without any contention, and were busy making sure everyone knew their roles in the bunker. That there were enough supplies. The system of rationing them out for the next couple of years.

When there wasn't anything immediate to focus on, Clarke retreated to her room. She didn't feel comfortable around anyone else now a days. Being with Jaha was necessary, but a constant reminder of the deal with the devil she had made. Miller was companionable enough, but Clarke noticed the hesitant way his eyes would sometimes meet hers. They shone with the knowledge of what she had done but he couldn't hate her too much for it since he had blindly followed.

And her mother.

Abbey was no longer Abbey. She was what Bellamy had been when had been recovering. A shell. Though, there seemed to be no end in sight for this affliction. Anger did not follow her in waves as she walked the halls, nothing seemed to emit from her pale, sickly skin. Her eyes were blank, listless, and she performed tasks like a robot. Without any care or passion, just moving to finish whatever it was and move on to the next thing. She stayed in the infirmary most days, even sleeping and taking her meals there. She barely spoke to anyone, only the necessary times when advising a patient.

Clarke wanted to say it was the loss of Kane that caused Abbey to be the way she was. Maybe it would be easier then. But it wasn't. Certainly, Kane's death weighed on her mother's heart immensely but not enough to make this zombie that haunted the bunker. It was something else, something deeper, and Clarke was helpless to do anything about. Abbey spared her a few words here and there, just for the sake she was her daughter and she knew she loved her, but other than that it was the same stone face and avoidance Clarke was now accustomed to. She even refused to fix whatever Ali had left in her mind.

Clarke had no one anymore.

She was too numb to cry.

She wished that the Death Wave had just taken them all.

Clarke wasn't sure where Bellamy spent his time that they never managed to run into each other. Maybe he kept to his room like she did. She knew where it was, as she knew where everyone's room was, and always avoided going to the east wing of the third level. But other then that, it was really a chance of fate if they managed to run into each other.

They never did.

Clarke was happy for it. Clarke hated it. Clarke wasn't sure about anything anymore.

Surprisingly, Murphy and she seemed to grow closer. Well, close enough. Clarke wasn't really close to anyone now a days. But he understood her. Knew the pain and regret that came when becoming a survivor. Of doing what needed to be done, no matter the cost. He did not look at her with hate or disgust and Clarke felt like she could actually breathe sometimes. Even Emori had slowly warmed up to her after everything that went down in Becca's lab.

The three of them had been in the cafeteria, one of the rare times Clarke actually chose to eat in public, when it happened.

It had been 3 months since Primfaya. Three months and three days since Clarke had shot Bellamy in the leg. 2 months and 28 days since Clarke had looked upon Bellamy's face.

And then there he was.

He stalks into the cafeteria, looking angry and miserable to be there. Clarke stops short at seeing him, her eyes widening and her limbs locking into place. He doesn't see her yet, for which she is grateful, for it lets her have a few peaceful moments to examine him. She forgot how large he was. Broad chest, muscular build, his shirt seeming always a bit too tight for his form. His hair is wild, but she remembers that (she even dreams about it). What's new, though, is the slight stubble now on his lower face. It's not enough for a beard, not enough for anything really, but the fact his face isn't its usual clean shaven self touches something in Clarke. No matter what they faced on Earth, what hells they had entered and exited by the skin of their teeth, he had always kept his face shaved.

Now he didn't.

"Uh oh." Murphy murmurs none too quietly beside her.

Bellamy still hasn't seen her but her starring is now obvious to others. Murphy looks unimpressed and Emori nervous. Clarke blinks a couple times, regaining herself, then drops her gaze to the grey mush of food on her plate. She doesn't say anything.

She can't help but look up again.

Bellamy is getting food. He waits in line, patiently, but still holds the glare on his face. While Abbey is a ghost, Bellamy is a rabid dog. They both keep to themselves, do what they need to, but let out such different airs. His whole body seems to almost quiver with the despair and rage that has now become his second nature. His only nature. No one speaks or looks his way, no one but Clarke who is waiting any minute now for the punishment that is sure to come.

Her heart bursts with energy she hasn't felt in months. Not since they day she shot Bellamy and herself as well. She _yearns_ for Bellamy to finally notice her. To deliver the penalty her crimes deserve. To scream, and rage, and finally-

Bellamy grabs his plate of food and turns around.

The cafeteria seems to grow silent. Everyone knows. They know what Clarke has done to Bellamy. What she had taken away from him. Of how close they had once been and the pathetic excuse of people they now where.

Even Murphy grows still.

She should look away. But she can't. She doesn't want to.

Bellamy doesn't move. He doesn't look away either.

The anger doesn't go away. His eyes are blackened with it. Clarke remembers how warm they once were. How she could look into them and feel safe, no matter what was going on around them. So many moments together when she had starred endlessly into them. And now this. This cheap imitation of what they once were. No, not an imitation. Those eyes had died. This gaze was something new. Something born of the darker depths of Bellamy's damaged soul.

His jaw ticks. The hands holding his plate tighten.

Clarke waits for it. Whatever it is.

It doesn't come.

Bellamy's upper lip curls into a sneer. His eyes narrow and then move off her. He turns his back on Clarke and marches out of the cafeteria the same way he came in.

Clarke wants to scream.

She's running in the opposite direction, forgetting her food. No one calls after her.

She goes to her room and punches her pillow. She throws the papers off her desk. Finally, alone and surrounded by concrete walls, she wails. The noise clawing up her throat is an animal which she does not know not. It's small and pathetic but loud and miserable. It cries in anger and defeat. It screams and screams till Clarke is face down on her bed. Her cheeks are dry and her breath hollow.

Why did he do nothing?

Why? Why? Why?

Nothing gets better.

Clarke feels like her mother now. Maybe even like Bellamy. Aimless. Dead inside. Doing the motions of everyday life but with no true feeling behind it. Though she leads her people, the problems that had existed in the outside world are not here. She isn't needed as much as she used to be. And Jaha seems more than happy to do more than her. He doesn't even ask. She doesn't have the energy to argue.

5 years of this. How was she going to survive 5 years of this?

It's exactly one year in the bunker when Abbey kills herself.

Clarke belatedly wonders if her mother had planned it that way. Had she been waiting for this exact day? For this exact amount of time to pass? She'll never know. Not now.

The infirmary had been empty that night and Jackson came in the next morning to find her. Hanging from a pipe with rope. Her skin just as pale as it had been when she was alive.

Clarke doesn't cry. She knew she was already dead inside so now, she is just rotting. She is upset, but not the way she used to be upset about things. She feels loss, but is already so familiar with the feeling.

Clarke hopes her mother finds some peace wherever she is. Maybe she's with Kane now. Or her dad. Anywhere, she hopes, that would make Abbey smile one more time.

Jaha insists on having a service.

Abbey is the first person to die in the bunker. No one really knows what to do, but Jaha is there to guide them. It's the kind of funeral they would have on the Ark, the kind of funeral there had been no time for on the Ground.

Clarke sits in the front row wishing she was invisible in the back. Jaha talks, as does Jackson, but no one else. It's short, quiet and somber, and everyone retires to their rooms when it's over. No one wants to deal with death, not anymore. They thought they'd have some time before the Grim Reaper plagued them again. Abbey apparently had other plans.

When the room thins out, Clarke walks toward the exit. She ignores the well wishers, doesn't even nod her head at them. She wants to go to sleep. She stops short of the door, because Bellamy is there.

It's been a year in the bunker and they haven't shared a word since the day she shot him. They've seen each other more since the day in the cafeteria but it usually plays out the same way. He glares, she waits with bated breaths for him to lash out, then he stomps away. It's their new routine. The new Bellamy and Clarke.

She sees him now, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed across his chest.

Now, he has something that could be called a beard. Clarke hasn't decided if she likes it or not.

Bellamy is looking at Abbey's coffin, for once, not with his usual revulsion. He looks calm for the first time since being sentenced to this underground prison. He even looks…sad. Clarke forgets, sometimes, Abbey had tried to help Bellamy so long ago. Perhaps he's mourning the one person down here who had tried to do the right thing with him.

Then he looks at her.

They're closer then they have ever been, so much so Clarke could just reach out and touch him.

But she doesn't. She just stands and stares and waits.

Bellamy doesn't move either. He considers her, tilting his to the side. It's disturbing how he isn't glaring at her and Clarke isn't sure what to do. This wasn't the routine they've made for themselves. This wasn't their new normal.

"How does it feel?" He asks, and the sound of his voice almost brings tears to her eyes. It would if she cried anymore.

Clarke's throat is dry, and she slightly coughs as she pushes the words out. "How does what feel?"

They're talking. They're actually talking.

"To lose the person you love most in this world?"

And then he smirks.

It's Bellamy on the first day of Earth. The Bellamy who had called her privileged, and mocked and belittled her. Who had almost killed her. The Bellamy she had hated.

She doesn't know what she feels for this Bellamy now.

He's gone before she responds. She wasn't even sure what she was going to say.

 _She's not the one I love most_.

Clarke remembers the throne room at Polis, when Ali had tried to torture information out of her. How she had used Abbey to do it. Clarke cried seeing her mother try and hang herself that day but remembered, with pain and guilt, it wasn't enough to get her to talk. She was going to let Abbey die. And Bellamy had been on his way up. The next victim that would be used against her. She never had to find out but Clarke knew she couldn't bear to see Bellamy in pain. She knew she would have talked just to spare herself that image.

Their new normal changes again a month later.

Murphy and Miller have teamed up to drag her out of her room and come hang out with them and some other young Arcadians. It's a thing now, now that people are set up in what is their new lives and there is no reason to be scared anymore, to have _fun_. Clarke isn't sure she is capable of it.

But she allows them to drag her along, if anything so they'd leave her alone in the foreseeable future.

The main room of the bunker is flooded with music, not too loud but loud enough, and people are drinking moonshine out of cups.

She remembers Monty. And Jasper. And Harper.

"Here," Murphy pushes a drink in her hand. "Maybe this will loosen you up."

She swallows it down hoping to forget.

Miller gives her another, but there is some warning in his expression. She ignores it and chug that one down too.

If anything, she'll get drunk enough so she can easily pass out.

Clarke looses count of how many she has. No one stops her and she certainly doesn't stop herself. There's plenty to go around and people seem almost obligated to make sure her hand is never empty. Clarke isn't really friends with any of these people but they're polite enough to each other. The night is mostly filled with small talk and games Clarke avoids playing. She walks here, and there, in circles, and with more than enough trips to the bathroom.

Murphy and Emori are, as usual, glued to each other's sides and playing a game. Miller is with Jackson, the two of them leaning against the wall and talking quietly to each other. Clarke doesn't feel like being a third wheel to either of them. So she walks and drinks and waits for it to be late enough to disappear.

Niylah is there, laughing and talking with the others as if she had always been part of Arcadia. Clarke doesn't talk to her much either now a days. Niylah had, ever since they met, been something of an escape for Clarke. Sure, there had been some genuine feelings there (Clarke hadn't been an empty monster at that time, not like she was now) but not enough to constitute for something serious. And Clarke didn't want to escape anymore. This was her life, born of the choices she had made, and she would accept whatever came with it. Niylah couldn't help her anymore. No one could. Their split wasn't even a split since they hadn't actually been together. Niylah let her go without any argument. It was almost as if it had never happened.

Bellamy is here.

How long has he been here? Clarke isn't sure. But there he is, drinking as well, amidst a crowd of people she does not know. They're talking to him but he's barely talking back, and while he doesn't look unhappy to be here, he doesn't look too interested either.

He chugs his drink and Clarke follows the bob of his Adam's apple.

"Don't even," Miller is suddenly at her side, his hand strong on her shoulder. Had she been walking toward Bellamy? "That's a bad idea."

Of course it is.

"What is?"

"Don't act dumb. Stay out of his way, he'll stay out of yours."

"Maybe I don't want to stay out of his way."

" _Clarke,_ " Miller looks serious now. His hand squeezes her shoulder, but it doesn't feel comforting. "You're drunk. Let me take you back to your room-"

Clarke rips away from his grasp. But she is drunk, so she does it dramatically, and it catches the attention of those around them. Like Bellamy.

"I don't need your help!" Clarke spits in his face. She sees herself. Hears the nastiness of her words and sees the angry scowl her face has taken up. But she's powerless to stop it. "Stay the hell away from me."

For his part, Miller doesn't look too upset. But he's definitely pissed. He raises his hands up and silently turns on his heel, doing as she asked.

Is that it now? For the people she doesn't lose, she's just going to push away?

"Very nice, Princess."

His voice makes her shiver. He's close, right behind her, but Clarke doesn't turn around. She's nervous he'll just disappear like he usually does after giving her a death stare.

"What do you want?" She asks. She's staring at the wall.

"From you? Nothing."

 _Then why are you here_?

Clarke stays silent.

"I don't even know why they bother with you anymore." He continues. "You showed just how disposable all your friends are to you."

"Not all my friends."

She waits to see how he reacts to that.

She isn't disappointed.

Clarke is twirled around viciously. The air is knocked from her lungs and her upper arms feel like they're put in tight shackles. Bellamy's face is _right there_ and he looks ready to kill her.

 _Do it. End it all._

"Don't you dare," He growls. His breath blows out in hot puffs on her skin. "Try and act like you _care_ about me."

"I do." Clarke whispers knowing it's not what he wants to hear. But it's the truth. If there is truly anyone Clarke cares about anymore, it's him. Even despite how much he loathes her. Maybe even because of it.

"You're a fucking liar." Bellamy snarls. But he's not loud. He's not yelling one bit. His voice is so low only she can hear him. And though the room can't make out their conversation, they can certainly see their little scene. Everyone is on edge waiting for Bellamy to finally break. So is Clarke.

"If you cared about me you wouldn't have done what you did."

Clarke wants to push him over. She needs to. "You waited a year to say that to me?"

He seethes at her words. His grip grows tighter. "I could kill you."

"Then what are you waiting for?"

The words don't make Bellamy flinch. He seems completely unbothered by them. But, for some reason, he lets go and takes a step back.

 _No, no, no, no._

He's leaving.

But Clarke is following right after him.

She follows him straight to his room. He even leaves the door open for her. She doesn't want any eaves droppers, people will be gossiping enough after this night, so she slams it loudly behind her. "What the hell Bellamy?" She yells.

The world is warm with liquor and their anger.

Bellamy rounds on her. "Get the fuck out."

He wants her here, for wherever twisted reason, else he would have stopped her.

"Do it," Clarke goads. She steps forward, close but not close enough. "Yell at me. Curse at me. Christ, _hit me._ Just- _please_ -do something."

His head flings back and a hollow laugh escapes him. "That's what this is about then? I fucking knew it."

Clarke stares at him in confusion.

"I know you. I hate you but God do I know you. You want to be punished. You _need_ it, don't you?"

Yes. A million times yes.

Clarke just stares.

"I thought of a million ways to get back at you." Bellamy begins, practically stalking towards her. "Lying there in that bed, after you. Shot. Me. A million ways to make you hurt and suffer like I was. Hell, I even thought about killing Abbey."

Clarke swallows at that.

"Cause that's how gone I was Clarke. That's how far gone _you made me_. But we always knew I was a murder, right? It's imbedded in me. And since Octavia was gone, I didn't care anymore. Nothing mattered anymore. You and I are responsible for the deaths of so many people, what was one more to the list?"

He shakes his head, stopping right in front of her.

"But I couldn't. She tried to help me. She was the only one who tried to help me. So I had to think of something else. And then I saw you, Clarke. I saw what you've become."

Clarke stares at him with as much courage as she can muster. It isn't much.

Bellamy smirks something mean. "So dead inside. The great Wanheda, brought down so low. You're pathetic now, Clarke. After everything we've done, after everything _you've_ done, you've finally hit rock bottom. And that was good enough for me. To see you like that, to know that this was your life now." Bellamy reaches forward and grabs her chin. It's too much. His nails are digging into her skin. It hurts.

Clarke relishes in it.

"It was even better knowing you were waiting for me to lash out at you. Every time you looked at me, it was written all over your face. And it felt great- _amazing_ to see you disappointed every single time. Like right now, you want it so bad. Don't you?"

 _Please_ her mind whispered. _Just do it._

"Beg for it, Clarke." Bellamy leaned forward. They were eye to eye, sharing the same air. Sharing the same heat. Sharing the same misery. " _Beg me for it_."

Her voice was quiet but it wasn't low enough to hide her desperation. "Please."

Then Bellamy kisses her.

She imagined kissing Bellamy Blake before. More than she wanted to admit. But this wasn't anything she ever imagined. This kiss would make her heart break if she still had one. Maybe she did, for something painful was bleeding deep inside.

He kissed her as strongly as he hated her. It was teeth, and aggression, and hot and fast, and punishing.

He was punishing her and Clarke was helpless for it. She let him slam her body down onto his bed, laid compliantly as he ripped off her clothes. Clarke was torn between watching and closing her eyes.

Bellamy wouldn't meet her gaze. He grabbed her breasts and squeezed. Clarke gasped and arched her back up, silently asking for more. His hands were rough, his fingertips calloused, and he tweaked and pinched her nipples so hard tears blurred her eyes.

When her eyes shut for a moment a hard slap to her ass snapped them back open.

"You fucking watch," Bellamy warned. He reached forward and grabbed the base of her skull, pulling back on the skin and hair there. "You watch everything I do to you." He bit her neck.

Clarke moaned.

Bellamy hit her again and the sensation blew tingles up her body. He was mouthing down her neck, branding every inch of pale skin, and Clarke realized he was still fully clothed. But she dared not touch him.

After bruising her breasts with his lips, Bellamy reached down to his zipper and tugged his pants off. His shirt remained on, much to Clarke's frustration, but she didn't have much time to complain. Bellamy slammed into her, and Clarke screamed at the intrusion.

She didn't know why she even considered he'd be gentle.

Bellamy didn't wait for her, or allow any time for her to get used to him. His hands latched onto her hips and he began pounding into her. It was a brutal pace. It pushed them up the bed till Clarke's head was bumping into the wall. Her hands flew up, to grab anything for some purchase, but then one of Bellamy's hands reached forward to stop them. He pushed them above her head, right against the wall, and held them there.

Clarke moaned. Cried. Gasped. Preened. It was all too much but she wanted more.

Bellamy still didn't look at her.

He stared at her chest as he fucked her into oblivion. He was biting him bottom lip, tightening and loosening the hand at her hip. There would be bruises after this.

"Bellamy," Clarke breathed when she felt her orgasm approaching.

Now, he looked at her. He seemed almost surprised, as if he had forgotten she had the ability to speak. "Again." He commanded.

His tone made Clarke groan. Hard. Unyielding. "Bellamy. Bellamy, Bellamy, _Bellamy_ -"

It crashed into her all at once. She screamed, his name of her lips. He came quickly after, rutting into her one final and hard time.

Clarke was weightless. She closed her eyes again, without any complaint this time. She felt him slide out of her, and then collapse onto to the bed right to her left. The heat from his body was slowly caressing her. She had the wild urge to turn over, to curl into his side-

"Get out."

It was suddenly cold.

But what had she been expecting? This-all of this-had been what she wanted. And even now, kicking her out, gave her the sick pleasure she has constantly been seeking from him.

This is what she deserved. This was who he was now and who she was. Because of her and what she had done.

Clarke didn't look at him once as she gathered her things and left.

It happened again a week later.

At first, Clarke thought it had all been a dream. She had been pretty drunk and woke up with the worst hangover in the world. But then she looked in the mirror and saw the marks. She didn't bother to hide them when leaving her room. No one questioned them on her. Miller was avoiding her, which she understood, but Murphy did raise his eyebrows. Emori elbowed him, saving Clarke from making any comments.

She was in the infirmary late at night, all the beds empty and only a lone lamp on. Clarke had taken to helping out here more and more as it made her feel the most useful. It reminded her of her mother, and of a time when things had been less unhappy.

It was nearing midnight, and she was ready to put the paper work off till the next day, when Bellamy walked in.

He marched right over to her desk, rounding it and then crowding her against the edge. Clarke wasn't really sure what was happening, but didn't want it to stop either, so she let him lift her up and turn her around. She tried not to shiver as he pushed right between her shoulder blades, her upper body smoothing against the desk top and papers. They crinkled nosily beneath her.

"Do you know what yesterday was?"

She shook her head.

"Octavia's birthday."

Her stomach dropped.

"She would have been one year older."

Her pants were pulled down from her waist.

"All I ever wanted was to see her grow old and happy."

He slapped her right cheek. Then her left.

Clarke gripped the edge of the desk.

"But she's dead."

The sound of his zipper hissed in the room. His dick, hard and long, nudged against her folds. Clarke lifted her ass up more. Bellay grabbed her hair.

"I hate you so much." His whisper was vibrating with anger but also hurt. Pain. Clarke nearly turned around to comfort him. She hadn't heard him sound so _lost_ in ages that it was instinct to try and make it all go away. But then he slammed into her. Clarke remembered he was broken because of her. Then she couldn't remember anything at all.

Bellamy fucked her mercilessly into the desk. It scratched against the floor. She gritted her teeth he was pulling her hair so hard.

"Scream for me," He growled, angling up higher and deeper.

Clarke screamed.

Again, when it was over, it was over. This time it was Bellamy to leave, quick and without any words of goodbye.

Clarke again was reminded of her emptiness and the justness of it all.

This became them now.

Bellamy always found her as she was too unsure of it all to go to him. It was always in an odd place, at on odd time, and never in their bedrooms. Clarke wondered why, that if the one time she had laid in his bed had been too much. Too intimate. She didn't ask. It was always rough, and left her sore and marked. She loved it. She looked forward to it. She wondered how Bellamy felt about it all. His words to her were always short, clipped, to the point and expressing-in different ways-how much he despised her. Mostly he griped about Octavia, other times Raven, Monty, and Harper.

She took it all because she deserved it all.

It happened at least twice a week, Clarke never sure when it was going to come. It made her more-well, just _more_. She wasn't a robot anymore, getting up, doing work, eating, and then going to bed. Now there was Bellamy. She had him back, even in this twisted capacity. She wasn't going to complain. It was more then she deserved. More than she ever hoped for.

Murphy makes a comment on it the third month in.

"You two are fucked up, you know that?"

She bandaging a long thin cut on his forearm, received from his work down in the boiler room. His skin is hot and sweaty, and his hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Long hair didn't suit him, in Clarkes opinion, but Emori likes it so that's that.

She isn't sure how to respond to his statement. He's right, of course, but that doesn't mean she has to say it. So she hums a noncommittal noise.

The answer doesn't deter him. "I'm just trying to wrap my head around it. Because, look, I'm the last person who's ever going to judge someone. We all have our damages, right? But this- _you two_ -you guys are a real piece of work and I can't exactly figure it out."

Clarke focuses on making the bandage tight.

"Cause Bellamy hates you. Like, with a burning passion as strong as the sun hates you. And it's like you get off on that."

Oh, how she does.

"It's not healthy."

The bandage is done and she can't avoid his words anymore. "I thought you weren't going to judge."

Murphy shrugs. "First time for everything I guess. Clarke, you tell me you're happy with this sick arrangement you two have then fine, end of conversation. But I don't think you are. And if you _do_ think you're happy with it, then I'm calling bullshit."

She glowers at him. "Does Bellamy get this talking to?"

"You kidding me? You're the more reasonable one, I'm not going to stick my head out for him just to get it bit off. Besides, I think he's well aware of what he's doing to you. But you, you're the one _taking_ it."

Clarke takes the gloves off her hands and steps back. "We're done here. Clean it tomorrow morning and put a new bandage on."

With a shrug, Murphy hops off the table. "Can't say I didn't try."

He apparently isn't the only one who has something to say about the situation.

A week later Miller finds her in the main office she and Jaha use to discuss business. She is going over their rations, as she does every week, just to make sure they're keeping to their schedule and not eating or drinking too much.

He taps once at the door before letting himself in. "Morning"

They're okay, now, Clarke's little outburst forgotten and blamed on alcohol and the bad mood she is continuously in.

The smile she gives him is weak, she hasn't had a genuine smile in the bunker once, but he accepts it with a nod of the head.

"Came to talk to you."

"About? Are the guards good? Schedules working?"

"Yea, everything's fine. It's nothing about that. It's about Bellamy."

Her lips thin into a straight line. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Clarke-"

"It's none of your business."

"The hell it isn't. You're both my friends. And I'm not going to sit back and watch you destroy each other."

Clarke shakes her head. "What we do is between us."

"Clarke, if you think what's happening isn't affecting him too-"

"How do you know about it?" Clarke interrupts, quick and sharp. "Does he talk to you about us?" And suddenly she's desperate to know. To get just a peak into Bellamy's head and wonder what's going on up there. To know if punishing her is the only thing he was getting out of this relationship.

Miller scratches his head. "We're friends, obviously we talk-"

"But you chose this too. Chose to put our people in the bunker." It's a cheap shot. Clarke knows it is. And she knows, ultimately, it's all her fault. There's no one to blame for locking the Grounders and their friends out but her. But a small part of her feels cheated. It's Jasper all over again. She, Bellamy, and Monty had killed the people in the Mountain yet it was only she Jasper hated and scorned for it. This is different, worse even, because it's Bellamy and it had been Octavia to die, but Clarke still can't help but just ask why.

Miller, at least, doesn't seem to argue her on it. His shoulders slump and a pained look takes over his face. "I know. God, I know. But, I guess everyone needs someone, right?"

It's true, to an extent. She has him, and Murphy, and Emori. She isn't as close to them as she had been other people but they're still there. And now, she supposes, she has Bellamy too.

"And me, well, no offense, but I'm a much better choice than you."

She isn't offended. It's true.

"Look, I just came to say, you two are hurting. And what you're doing to each other, its only making it worse. I preferred the Bellamy that ignored you to this Bellamy. The same for you Clarke. You're different from before, but not better. I know I'm not saying it right, it's hard to explain, but even Murphy sees it and you know if he thinks something is wrong then something is really fucked up."

Clarke doesn't know what to say. Of how to explain it. Nothing is better but Miller didn't get it. No one got it. Nothing was going to _be_ better, not anymore. Not for Clarke and Bellamy, at least. This path they were taking wasn't leading to forgiveness or recovery or some kind of happy ending. Happiness was no longer an option for them. It was forfeited the moment the bullet entered Bellamy's leg.

So again, she repeats, her voice hollow, "It's none of your business."

Miller leaves in a huff of frustration.

Clarke tries to ignore both what Murphy and Miller had said, but their words follow along for the rest of the day. She goes to bed with them, and wakes up with them, and they're still there when Bellamy has her pushed up against the wall in a relatively ignored hallway on the lowest level of the bunker.

The concrete is hard on her bare back and his body is crushing her so much it's almost hard to breathe. Her nails are buried in his back and by the noises Bellamy is making, he likes it. So she drags them up and down hoping, for once, she leaves some marks on him.

He's sucking at the point her neck meets her shoulder and snapping their hips together. Clarke's legs are wrapped around his waist but they're beginning to feel like jelly. They were both nearing their edges, their noises getting more animalistic and their moves sloppy.

When Clarke comes her skull hits the wall, hard, and Bellamy's orgasm has his left hand punching the space right next to her head. She blearily watches the skin on his knuckles tear open, little drop of blood squeezing out.

"Bellamy-"

He drops her without warning and draws back. Clarke is quick enough to catch herself, if not stumbling a little. He reaches for his shirt and pants, wordlessly redressing.

She tries again. "Bellamy-"

"Don't," He growls. "I can take care of it."

 _But you don't have to._

Clarke grabs her clothes as well, frowning the whole time as she does. She was breaking an unspoken rule between them, to care more than she should.

"Bellamy-"

"God, _what_ Clarke?"

He looks at her like she's a fly that won't stop buzzing in his face.

She suddenly feels foolish to bring it up, well, it's _definitely_ foolish but she can't stop now. "Murphy was talking to me-"

"As if I give a crap what Murphy says-"

"And so was Miller."

His mouth snaps shut at that.

"What we're doing, Bellamy, it's…I'm not sure…"

"Sure of what?" He demands. "You want to stop?"

"No, I didn't say that-"

"Then what are you saying? And why do you care what they're saying?"

"I don't want to hurt you anymore than I have Bellamy."

His lips twisted into an ugly, bemused smile. "You think this is hurting me?"

It's been three months of doing this and Clarke has always lead Bellamy lead. Always let Bellamy talk. Because she deserved whatever punishment he wanted to doll out to her. But now, now it was changing, her friends made her see that, and it was finally time to find her voice again. And maybe Bellamy knew Clarke well, but Clarke also knew Bellamy.

"Yes," She says, her voice stronger then she remembers it being for so long. She sounded like the Clarke form long ago. The Clarke people had actually liked. "I think being around me hurts you so I don't know why you keep coming back."

"Fuck you." He hisses but doesn't really argue what she said.

"The last thing I want to do is hurt you anymore, Bellamy."

"Worry about yourself. You gave up the right to worry about me."

Clarke glares at him, for once. "I'll do what I want."

"Oh, we all know that."

"Well I'll end it then." She proclaims, crossing her arms over her chest. "This is done."

"Oh really?" Her back is again against the wall, and Bellamy is sliding his knee between her legs. Clarke hates herself when she rubs against him and hates it even more when a whimper squeezes past her lips. Bellamy palms her breasts through her shirt, rubbing them forcefully till her nipples become hard little pebbles. "You're ready to give this up? Who else is going to make you feel the way I do?"

"Anyone," Clarke gasps out, her words in direct contrast to her actions. She's rubbing more forcefully against his knee, lost in the friction it's creating against her clit. Her back arches as well, and she wishes desperately she hadn't put her shirt back on. "I could get anyone."

His eyes darken at that and Clarke wonders if it's possible to make him jealous.

"Who would have you?" He counters. "The Commander of Death. Who would want to touch you and your bloody hands?"

She slaps him.

It shocks them both.

All their movements freeze and they stare at each other wide eyed. Bellamy usually gives her some slaps during their fucking but never has she struck him. And this wasn't even in the name of being frisky. Even now, a pink red outline is forming on his cheek.

Even more outrageous, Bellamy lifts her up and kisses her.

Clarke's legs immediately wrap around him and he starts to rut into her. It's madness with their clothes on. It's like they're teenagers whose only act of being sexual is dry humping. But, fuck, if it isn't driving Clarke to the edge. Bellamy kisses her like he's desperate for it, but its different than their usual kissing. It's more…vulnerable. Clarke can't think too much on it, maybe later she will. But now, now all she wants to do is drown in Bellamy Blake.

And so she does. She cries out her orgasm, her voice weak and light and her breathing uneven. She sounds so small, even to her own ears. Bellamy swallows the sound with his lips.

It isn't certain if Bellamy comes, but he makes a pleasurable enough sound and slows down his movements. When they're both completely spent, and are reduced to only labored breathing, they don't immediately dethatch themselves from each other.

Even worse, their foreheads manage to tip against each other, making their noses brush and the air between them hot and sticky.

Clarke is terrified to open her eyes.

"It does hurt to be around you," Bellamy whispers, the words a caress against her lips. "But I can't stop."

And then Clarke realizes. She thought this whole time was about just punishing her. But Bellamy has been punishing himself as well.

She still can't look at him. "Then let's end it. Let's not do this to each other."

"You really want that?" His words seem lost and afraid. They are of a small child unsure of what's to come next. _"I'm a monster"_ He once said to her. _"All I do is hurt people"._ He's never shown her this side of him in so long. She used to know how to calm him and make it all better. She isn't so sure anymore.

"I want you." Clarke admits, her voice heavy with emotion. With what they have lost and can't get back. "But I don't know how to have you without destroying each other."

His hand smoothes against her cheek, cupping the flesh gently. Clarke leans into the rare show of kindness, desperate for more. "Don't you already know? There's nothing left of us to destroy."

And so, again, their relationship changes.

The sex becomes less rough. Less punishing. They're gentle with each other but it's not the kind of love making Clarke has had before. It's not gentle out of affection, if there is any affection between them it is buried deep and hidden under their depths of pain. This gentleness comes with a certain kind of fear. Fear of what being together does to them. Fear of what not being together does for them. There's no right choice to make, only wrongs ones, and neither knows which one is worse than the other.

That's not say they are never rough with each other anymore. There are certain days when the ghosts of their pasts are too loud to ignore. When the blood that can never be washed from their hands burns too red. When their crimes need to be answered for, and the only ones who can do it is themselves. At least now, they are both aware they are punishing each other as well as themselves.

Miller still does not approve and neither does Murphy, but at least the latter doesn't let it be read so easily on his face.

They do this for a year.

Clarke can't exactly say things get better for her, but they don't get much worse much either.

It's month three of year 2 in the bunker when things boil over with the Arcadians.

Things have gone smoothly enough up until this point. Jobs aren't great or glamorous but they're jobs nonetheless and keep people busy. Food has never been good since the Arc, and even then the meals hadn't been so wholesome. No, what proves to be a final push over the edge is, ironically, being cut off from the outside world. It's silly, really, considering they had spent a majority of their lives in space without so much of a small breeze of natural air. But apparently being on the ground has made them all selfish and greedy, desperate for more. Its cabin fever at its' finest and someone needs to be blamed for it.

Clarke and Jaha pull the short straws.

Who else would there to be the point fingers at? They're the leaders and when things go wrong, they're at the top of the list of suspects. Clarke isn't surprised or affronted, she can't even blame them. Most things were her fault, so why not this? So when there's a large group of people surrounding her, red faced and verging on yelling, she stays calm and poised.

Miller's presence at her side helps as well.

"It's been two years!" A man named John spits. Literally, spits. Clarke flinches slightly when she feels some of it on her face. "We can't stand it in here. At least on the Arc there were stars. Here is rock and more rock!"

"Five years," Clarke beings calmly. "We can't go back out for five years. It's been two."

"Maybe you were wrong!" A feminine voice shouts.

"Raven came up with that number and she isn't even here!" Another joins in.

The sound of her late friend's name finally makes Clarke's expression break a little. But only for a second. Then it's back to normal and she meets all their heated glares with one of her own. "If you'd like to open the hatch and test the air, go right ahead. We can lock that room so the radiation won't leak into the bunker and kill us all. Who's first?"

Their shouting dies down but isn't completely silent, the angry chorus now reduced to irritated grumbling. But they don't want walk away yet either.

"This still could be a trick." The man John accuses.

"Why don't you test it for us?"

"Yea, make her open the hatch!"

Miller has a hand on his gun, still holstered, but his grip tightens.

Clarke wonders if they would really go so far to try and force her. Where they that angry? That crazed? She's actually curious to find out. But it would never get far. Miller would take some of them down and then the other guards would come running. The riot would be squashed before it ever gained any real steam.

"Enough"

The voice is loud and authoritative, and everyone silences at the tone.

Even Clarke's breath stills.

Bellamy pushes through the crowds and comes to stand by Clarke. He doesn't look at her but instead levels his ice cold gaze on the crowd. His eyes seem to narrow even more when they pass over John, the self proclaimed ringleader. The man is red in the face but doesn't open his mouth.

"You're angry," Bellamy begins. It's the Bellamy who led the 100 on those early days in the ground. The one who continued to try and lead the Arcadians through every good and bad decision he made. Who tried to save them all from the end of the world.

It's him, but there are differences. He doesn't stand as tall. His eyes aren't as resolute. Even his words, though firm and clear, seem to lack the inspiration that use to move people. But he's Bellamy Blake and the people know him. And though he isn't the motivational speaker he once was, it doesn't mean what he's about to say isn't true.

"We're all angry. We're all tired. We all want out of this place. But the fact is, we can't. You know this. You may be pissed about it, but you know it. Open that hatch door and it's over. Raven isn't here but that doesn't make what she said untrue. But you know what? You're _alive_. It isn't the life you pictured but you're still here. We're all still here. And we need to make this work because there is no other option. We live, or we die. Blame Clarke if you want, but who are you going to blame after she's gone? And then who are you going to blame after that? You'll blame everyone until there's no one left and you'll still be in this bunker until you decide to kill yourself and step outside."

Clarke watches him, fascinated and awed. His words tug something deep inside, but not enough to bring whatever it is to the surface. Clarke hopes he keeps talking, hopes whatever it is he's pulling loosens and breaks to the surface.

"You're _alive,_ " Bellamy repeats again, this time accusation clear in his voice. "Others _died_ for you to be here. Hundreds of people, hell, _thousands_ of people _dead_. Burned up in fire and radioactivity so you could be given a fucking chance. So if you want to whine and blame someone, I'll throw you out of the damn hatch myself and save us all the bother."

No one us says another word.

The crowd disperses, their expressions still unhappy. Clarke stands still until they're all gone and then she finally turns to Bellamy. She doesn't say anything, just merely raises an eyebrow.

Bellamy hasn't done anything close to leading since coming into the bunker. And this, this was like cannoning balling into the deep end.

But…

Was it in her defense?

Or was he just trying to calm a situation that could have gone terribly south?

Clarke does and doesn't want to know.

Bellamy glares, but it doesn't hold its usual heat. If anything, it's exasperated. It's saying, _don't you start with me_.

Behind them, Miller actually chuckles.

Bellamy comes with her now, _sometimes,_ to discuss things with Jaha. He just listens, though, and doesn't really comment much. It's as if he's hesitant to take on any real responsibility. But no, hesitant isn't the right word. It's more unwilling. But then that begs the question, why bother to begin with?

The only logical reason, Clarke is too afraid to believe, is her.

Bellamy seems to really only pay attention to the things Clarke is involved with. To always be at her side when she addresses their people or do something in public. Even in private meetings with Jaha, his eyes only focus when Clarke truly cares for a certain topic.

But why? Why the sudden protectiveness?

 _Why?_

She wants to ask but can't bring herself to. So, as usual, Clarke takes what she can get with Bellamy. It's that, are loose it all and have nothing. And that, she cannot accept.

Clarke is going over the numbers of their water supply one afternoon, sitting quietly at her desk and scribbling away math. Bellamy is there too, sitting off to the side of the room with a book in his hand.

"This doesn't make sense," She says suddenly, exasperated and tired. She flings the pencil down and leans back, trying to clear her head.

"What's wrong?" Bellamy asks without looking up from his reading.

"Our supply is low which doesn't make sense since it isn't showing anyone taking more then they're allotted each week."

"So then the numbers are wrong."

"But how? I can't find the problem."

The book quietly closes in his hands and then Bellamy is beside her, squinting down at her math. He silent for a few moments but then his brow is furrowing as well, confusion clear on his features. "You're right. This doesn't make sense."

"See?"

"Which means you have a bigger problem."

"Bigger than not having enough water for the next three years?"

"The supply isn't that bad yet. It's salvageable if we ration more. Your bigger problem is someone is taking more then they deserve and they're getting away with it. Which means someone is helping that person screw with the numbers."

"Fantastic. That means we have to look into every person who has ever been on water duty. Ever person who reports back with the statistics each week."

"Let me do it."

Clarke eyes him curiously. "You?"

Bellamy is pointedly not looking at her, his eyes still trained on the paper below but very forcefully. "I can handle it."

"I never said you couldn't. Just wondering why."

"Why I care?"

"Well I'm assuming you care because you don't want us to all die of dehydration. But…"

"Just say what you want to say, Clarke."

"Anyone else could do this. You don't have to."

"But I want to."

"But _why_?"

She pushing, she knows, and she wants to stop but her mouth suddenly has a brain of its own.

Bellamy huffs and pushes away from the table. Away from her. He marches over to the door but Clarke sees the frustration clear as day on his face. At her? Himself? This whole situation?

"I'll take care of it." Is all he says before he leaves her alone in the room.

It's a week later when Bellamy comes to her with a group of four men.

Miller is with him, the two of them herding the disgruntled men into the office where she and Jaha are.

Clarke tries to catch his eye but Bellamy looks resolutely at Jaha. "We've solved your water problem."

Jaha raises an eyebrow. "Care to explain?"

Bellamy shoves a man in his forties, with dusty blonde hair and a hunched posture, forward. "Talk."

"My wife," The man begins, his voice strained and clipped. "She's always had an issue with dehydration. Has a metabolic disorder. She needs more then you all have decided she deserves."

"And why would you not come to us?" Jaha asks.

"What good would it have done? I already knew what answer I would have gotten."

"You don't know that," Clarke snaps. Suddenly, she's very, extremely, passionately, pissed off. Because this man isn't being fair. Blaming her for something she hadn't even done, just something he'd assume she'd do. And they could have made it work. Somehow, even if it meant some people volunteering to cut back on rations, they could have made it work. They wouldn't have let the woman die. "And what about the rest of you? Do we all have sick wives?"

Bellamy glances at her then but she barely acknowledges him. She doesn't care to know what he thinks of the man's accusation.

One of the men she knows. His name is Regald. He works in the cafeteria, more specifically, dealing out water rations. He looks the angriest out of the group and meets Clarke's stare without any remorse. "I was helping out a sick man's wife." He proclaims unabashedly.

"And what of the rest of these men?" Jaha counters.

The two others are tense but at least a bit more ashamed. They keep their heads bowed and their gaze on the ground.

"Speak for yourselves." Jaha snaps.

"We heard what Mike was doing." One stutters and nods to the man with the wife. "Thought we could get in on it."

Clarke scoffs. "Get in on water that we need to survive?"

"Don't act like you all don't got more stashed away!" the other man shouts. "Having your own secret supply for you higher ups. It's like the Ark all over again!"

"Are you serious?" Clarke all but growls.

"I did what I do for my wife, that's it." Mike proclaims again. "I didn't know anything about them."

Regald shifts and Clarke's notices his hands curl into fists. "They approached me for help after they found out about Mike, it's true. And what they said made sense."

"That we were hiding secret rations of water?" Clarke exclaimed incredulously.

"And you didn't on the Ark?" Regald argues. "Maybe in the beginning we were all in this together but how long is that going to last? How long did it last on the Ark? It's our second year here, it was only a matter of time before the lines were drawn. We were just getting a head start."

Clarke shakes her head. "No, you're wrong."

"Says you!" One of the other offenders shouts. "You, Clarke _Griffin_. You were royalty on the Ark, on the Ground, _and here_. Of course you don't have to worry about these things. You've _never_ had to worry about them. Not like us. We live everyday wondering when the other shoe is going to drop."

"Enough." Jaha growls and everyone in the room grows silent. "You've committed a crime against everyone in this bunker. You've committed a crime against the _last of humanity_. This will not go unanswered. "

Punishment for crimes in the bunker had briefly been discussed. No one really wanted to consider the fact it would be a possibility but not one was too naïve to think it would never happen either. It just hadn't been imperative at the time, there had been so many more important things to discuss. And now here it was, two years later.

The solution had been the room Bellamy had been kept in so long ago. When he had tried to fight his way to Octavia, and to the rest of the people waiting above ground for salvation. Before Clarke had shot him. Before everything had gone wrong. It was more secure now, as obvious by Bellamy's escape, and would serve to house anyone committing any wrongs.

"Three weeks," Jaha sentences, not waiting for any court or jury. "Your families will not be punished for your crimes, but you will. Your usual rations will be thinned in an attempt to compensate for what you've unjustly taken. You will not be starved near death but you will certainly feel the difference."

All the men's eyes widen in indignation but Mike looks ready to jump up and actually throttle Jaha.

"Your wife," Jaha says, noticing Mike's anger. "Will be cared for. As she would have had you just come to us to begin with. Now, take them away."

And then it's over.

Bellamy and Miller do as they're told, shuffling the men up and out of the room without anyone uttering another word.

Clarke watches them leave, tasting ash in her mouth as their hateful accusations linger in her head.

The screen replays in her head for two days, the words causing her blood to boil and her heart stutter with uncertainty. This wasn't the Ark. They were wrong. Things would not turn out the same way. Clarke wants to talk to someone about it, just to make sure she's not deluding herself, but she's not sure who to go to. Jaha, obviously, thinks the same as she but he has been wrong so many times before. And he had once been one of the privileged to make matters even more unsure. Likewise, Murphy and Miller had been at the opposite side of spectrum. Criminals beaten down but the laws of the Ark. She's being unfair, maybe. They're her friends. If she asked them a question, they would be honest.

Wouldn't they?

It's late at night and she and Bellamy are on one of the infirmary beds.

They're bodies are hot and the stench of sex lingers over them. They're close but only because the bed is too small. They don't cuddle. They never cuddle. But this is the closest they ever get. Skin barely brushing, breaths intermingling, and Clarke trying so hard to show she is not counting every freckle on his skin.

But tonight, she doesn't want him to dash off right away. She never wants him to dash off right away but that's a dream she knows will never become true.

"Are they right?" She whispers into the dark, her words dropping gently onto his shoulder. If she only leant forward a bit more, she could put her face in the crook on his neck, kiss his warm skin, feel his heartbeat beneath her skin…

He doesn't answer right away.

Bellamy is starring up at the ceiling, his chest falling up and down. His eyelids are drooping, as if he was about to fall asleep, but there is an awareness there that Clarke recognizes.

He doesn't ask who she is talking about. He knows.

"People are unhappy," Bellamy replies, just as low as she. "And I don't think you can fix that."

"Why?" She hears the way her voice near whines, a child upset with the situation around her.

"This situation was never going to be perfect. And it was never going to be easy. This is the Ark, Clarke. We're just below ground instead of above it this time."

"What they said, it's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"Bellamy-"

He rolls to his side, facing her and now looking very awake. "You can't control everything, Clarke. Least of all how people feel or act. They're upset and angry and they're going to lash out. And you-you need to be careful."

"What does that mean?"

His mouth thins. "People need someone to be angry with. You're at the top of their list."

It's not surprising. She basically already knew that. But they way Bellamy says it…the way he looks right now…

"That's why you're suddenly so interested." Clarke whispers. The realization gets stronger with every passing second. "You're….worried for me. For what someone might do to me."

Bellamy rolls off the bed.

He doesn't deny her statement or confirm it. He's just quiet. Quiet and gathering his clothes. Quiet and changing. Quiet and leaving.

She wishes she could cry. Just to have something to do. Just to release the mayhem going on in her head.

And it happens.

Lines begin to get drawn amongst everyone. Those with more administrative jobs against those in labor. Those in charge of doling out rations verse those who just follow along. People remembering who they were on the Ark, on the Ground, and wanting to keep up the "persona" in the bunker.

It happens and Clarke can't stop it just as Bellamy warned her.

The only thing she can do is make sure it's not as corrupt as it once had been.

But even that she fails to do.

Since the water incident, Clarke looks at their supplies more closely and finds more discrepancies.

She wants to scream.

Bellamy, again, offers his assistance and it soon becomes his permanent job. He looks for corruption in the Bunker and tries to resolve it. But Clarke, and Jaha, are always the ones to pass the sentence on those he finds guilty. That he does not partake in.

More and more, Clarke finds people grow quiet around her when she enters a room. She notices the looks of suspicion, or disdain. She wonders if had been like this on the Ark as well and she had just never noticed. On the Ground they had all been so focused on surviving. But in the Bunker, circumstances aren't so dire. People can afford to be petty and angry and hateful.

If Bellamy isn't busy looking into some situation, he's always sticks close to Clarke. She finds it more nerving then comforting. He is there because he thinks someone is going to try and hurt her. Not because he wants to be.

"Hey Princess," Murphy greets, leaning against the wall next to her.

The nickname makes Clarke jump. She hasn't been called that in a while. Bellamy will probably never call her that again.

"How looks your Court?"

"Shut up, Murphy."

"You're testy this morning."

"Our vegetable supply is low."

"Sick world we live in when people are stealing vegetables, eh?"

Clarke looks at him out of the side of her eye. "You wouldn't know anything about that would you?"

He smirks, but the expression could mean anything when it comes to Murphy. "You accusing me of something? I thought that was your boyfriend's job."

"He's not-" Clarke sighs. "I asked you a question."

"No, I don't know anything about it."

"Would you tell me even if you did?"

"Probably not."

She wants to be angry at him. A part of her is. But it's Murphy, and she isn't surprised anymore. So she pushes off the wall and stomps away from him before she does something stupid.

Nothing gets better.

Bellamy is doing a well enough job but when one problem gets fixed, another one rises right up. And then people start getting pregnant.

Which is just _ridiculous_ really. The implants apparently do have an expiration date which sucks because about 8 women get pregnant all at the same time. Probably more will start coming forward soon enough as well and no one had been prepared for this. Now on top of people stealing rations, they'd have to account for all these new mouths to feed.

"We have to limit it," Jaha says one day.

Clarke knows he is right but she hadn't wanted to be the one to say it. Especially with Bellamy in the room.

His whole body tenses and he glares at Jaha. "Because that worked so well last time?"

"It did work," Jaha counters. "Your sister was the only anomaly."

"So what happens when another _anomaly_ occurs? There's no floating down here so what's the preferred choice of murder?"

Clarke can't breathe let alone try and enter the conversation. She never talks to Bellamy bout anything relating to Octavia. She just can't. And he wouldn't even let her if she dared attempt.

Jaha closes his eyes with a sigh. "It won't come to that."

"I'm sure you said the same thing to yourself on the Ark."

"Blake, your mother broke the law-"

"She couldn't _help having a child._ " Bellamy growls. "Her implantation didn't work. That wasn't her fault. And she didn't want to give Octavia up."

"I know this is personal for you-"

"Screw you," Bellamy snaps and then he's out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

Jaha looks to Clarke for something, anything, but she can't even meet his gaze.

"Clarke…"

He's tired, just like her, and she feels bad for making him deal with that whole matter. "We'll think of some form of protection. And…and we just hope it works."

Because if it doesn't, things were going to get a lot worse.

Emori gets pregnant.

Murphy is a wreck and isn't it a sight to see. Clarke would tease him if she wasn't so sure he would hit her for it. Everything she does, he monitors, everything she doesn't do, he questions. Emori is bothered but patient. Murphy has lost almost everyone in his life, he doesn't want to lose his love either. Especially not his unborn child. So when his actions become near exasperating, no one pushes too much, because they understand.

But Clarke doesn't understand when Bellamy stops touching her.

No, that's not true. She does understand. Baby fever is going around and it's now a fact that the implantations don't work. Bellamy doesn't want to impregnate her, plain and simple. It hurts and doesn't hurt. She wants to yell but also hold back.

She wants. Oh, she wants.

He's still there for business, but that's about it. And since they're not exactly friends, this is all she can get with Bellamy. Sex and business and now one is gone. It's sad she can't bring herself to talk to him about it. Which is sad too.

She punches the wall one day. It's weak and pathetic and makes her knuckles scab and ache.

Again, oh how she wishes she could just sit and cry.

"Clarke," Miller is in her doorway. His breathe is short, his eyes wide and frantic. "You need to come. Now. It's Emori."

Emori is in the infirmary, squirming and screaming on one of the too small beds. Sweat drips down her red face. Her good hand clenches the white sheet in a death grip while her bad one flails wildly. Murphy is next to her, talking fast and frantic, his words coming out more in a ramble rather than anything rational or comforting. Her eyes her squeezed shut and never open, despite Murphy's words or her own.

She's eight months pregnant.

Eight months of no touch from Bellamy.

Eight months of not talking about it.

Eight months of a different sort of pain and misery than Clarke has become accustomed to.

"You need to breathe," Clarke instructs, feeling her pulse point. It's beating too wildly. Too fast to be healthy. "Please, for your baby. Emori, you need to calm down."

Her words do little. Her words do nothing. Murphy curses.

"Jackson," He's there, somewhere behind her back. "We need sedatives."

Murphy's head snaps up. "Is that going to hurt her? The baby?"

Clarke shakes her head no and continues to urge Emori to calm down. She's not sure what's wrong. It could be a plethora of things, too many to list. But they don't have the resources to name it or hope to help it. All they could do is their best and honestly, Clarke isn't sure she's capable of that anymore.

Bellamy shows up at some point.

He's stays in the back, away from the chaos, but is clearly present and there if needed. Miller eventually gravitates toward him, because he is just as useless as him in this situation.

Clarke should have known.

There is no such thing as happy endings. Not anymore.

Emori gives premature birth.

The baby is a stillborn.

Emori dies in labor.

Clarke stares numbly at the frozen body on the bed. Blood pools the once pristine white sheets. Sweat still sticks to her now chilling skin. Jackson takes away the still small body. Murphy hasn't moved. His hand is clutching Emori's bad one, and he hasn't let go. Not yet.

Clarke can't wait to see how he reacts.

It's too much death. She should be use to it by now. So many people, so many names. Finn, Lexa, Jasper, Monty, Harper, Marcus, Raven, Octavia, and Abbey. Why does it still hurt? Why does it still scare her so? Why can't she just be numb to it all?

She makes it to her room before she falls to her knees. Air bursts from her lungs, makes her gasp and flail. Blood boils and reddens the skin, and while angry tears sting her eyes, they refuse to fall. No crying, no more. It's not her fault, Clarke knows this, and yet she still blames herself. Because she was there, she tried to make it work, to make it alright. And she couldn't. Emori died. Her baby died. Murphy's soul died with them.

"Clarke"

Of course he would be here.

She doesn't look at him. Tries her best to ignore him and silently say _fuck off_.

"You did your best."

"Oh really?" Her words are sharp and vicious. "If I did my best then I would have a happy and healthy mother and baby."

"It wasn't your fault."

"Go away."

"Clarke-"

"I hate you," Clarke admits, her eyes blearily focused on the grim concrete floor. Her fingers dig into her denim clad thighs, hurting both her blunt nails and too frail skin. But her words hurt her heart. Because she does hate Bellamy. She never wanted to admit it, not to herself or to anyone else. Yet, while she does hate him, she also loves him. And to admit one causes pain to admit the other. She needs him yet loathes him. Yearns his touch yet fears it. She can't stay away from him though a deep part of herself warns too. These past months have been a torture and reprieve. She needs him because he understands her suffering and she understands his. Because he knows her sins and can punish her for them, as she does the same for him. Because there is no one else left who can see her. There is no one else left that can see him.

"I hate you too."

The words don't hurt as much as she thought they would.

"You don't want me to have your baby."

It's not a fair accusation. Neither of them want children for so many reasons. To blame him for it, to place it solely on his shoulders…it's a low blow and she's not mature enough to amend it.

But then he answers her, and Clarke doesn't feel so guilty anymore.

"No, I don't want to have a baby with you."

Bellamy means it. Means it in the way he said it and with no ulterior motives.

Clarke gasps out another painful blow.

"Clarke…you didn't think I would…."

At least he sounds a bit apologetic.

It isn't enough.

"Why can't you leave me alone?" She begs, desperate, painful. Suddenly she realizes what Miller had tried to warn her about. Murphy as well. She realizes that maybe she doesn't want to kill whatever of her soul is left. It's not a lot, Clarke knows this, but it's not completely gone either. And while her body and heart craves Bellamy, his presence also is poisoning her.

And she isn't strong enough to let go.

That's the worst part.

"Then I'd be alone too."

Nothing gets better.

The bunker enters its third year.

Murphy is an empty shell. More spiteful than ever. Angry. Sarcastic. Violent. Uncaring.

No one can fix him. He can't fix himself. It's like watching a car crash. At least, what Clarke imagines what would be a car crash. She'd never seen one in real life. Only movies. Knowing the accident was going to happen, watching one car aim and slowly makes it way in the path of another. Waiting for the impact. Holding your breath and praying for the best. Knowing your prayers wouldn't be answered.

Rations are still being stolen. They weren't going to last at this point. Bellamy is doing his best but it's like a disease. Where it originates in one point, it spreads viciously to another. No way to eradicate the whole thing. No way to cure the body of its sickness.

The pregnancies don't stop. More and more women grow fat with children. The already depleted rations have to be thinned even more.

It's all falling apart.

It's not a secret.

Everyone knows there is not enough food or water. Everyone knows that the chance of making it to the fifth year was growing slimmer and slimmer.

Bellamy and Clarke barely talk anymore. Not alone anyway. She resents the pregnancies for it. It's not fair, no one planned for that to happen, and yet here they were. She misses for what they were before the pregnancies, before the poisonous words they said to each other. Before she realized how far low they had sunk.

Clarke barely talks to anyone anymore. Sometimes she goes whole days without hearing her own voice. Even when people through curses and spite her way, which is becoming a daily routine, she lets the words pierce her skin and sink slowly within. Let them blacken her already dark blood. She does this and continues walking on, toward a end that is no longer in sight.

It all falls apart.

Fights erupt. Punching and cursing and blaming and hate. It's the fourth year in the bunker when all is lost. No one cares anymore. Life doesn't matter anymore. Making it to the fifth year is impossible. The food is gone. The water. The will to live.

Clarke wonders if it had been worth it. Shooting Bellamy. Denying Octavia and the Grounders the chance to live. Would it have ended differently? Would they have survived? Had her people always been so selfish? So uncaring?

The answer comes when she looks at herself. Clarke had always been willing to sacrifice. To betray those close to her. She had always been selfish. Selfish for life and for the greater good. She was just like everyone else, just in different terms. She can't hate her people for what they have done. She wishes she could. Really, she does. But as she sits in her room, away from the riots and violence, she can't bring herself to do it. Life in the bunker had only been accomplished through death and betrayal. It only fits it would end this way as well.

"Clarke."

She looks up at Bellamy. She had thought she had locked her door. Well, maybe she wanted to pretend she had locked the door. To secretly allow someone to come in, to end it all. To just be done.

She does not know where Miller or Murphy is, what has happened to them. Perhaps their bodies are now lifeless on the floor like so many others. Hers would soon add to the list.

"Bellamy."

His name feels odd on her tongue. She hasn't said it in a while.

There is blood on his face and his shirt. But his eyes are not bright with violence or adrenaline. They are quiet, somber. He shuts the door behind him. He locks it.

"It was all for nothing," Clarke says. Her voice is hollow and sounds somewhere far, far away. "Saving the human race…killing all those people…it meant nothing."

Bellamy doesn't answer her. He just stares for a moment and then, almost hesitantly, makes his way over. Slowly, he leans against the wall and slides down, placing himself right next to her. "All for nothing." He echoes.

"I know I've said it before but…I'm sorry, Bellamy. I'm so sorry. I know what she meant to you."

In four years Clarke has never said her name. She'll die not saying it.

Bellamy is silent. For minutes or hours, Clarke is not sure. She doesn't look at him. She doesn't have the energy to do so.

"I imagine….sometimes….if you didn't do it."

If she hadn't shot him. If she hadn't damned both their souls to hell.

Clarke closes her eyes. Allows herself to drown in his voice. Only his voice and nothing else. "What is it like?"

"It's hard," Bellamy admits but not hatefully. "It's always hard on the Ground. But…we make it work. Because we always make it work."

"Tell me." Clarke all but begs.

Bellamy's leg brushes against hers. "You don't shoot me. We let everyone in. It's…difficult but we manage to make it work. But then Raven calls and we go to help. Monty and Harper meet us along the way. Murphy and Emori come too because they want to help Raven. But we make it too late. Too late to come back. So we…we go to space."

Clarke does something she didn't think possible anymore. She laughs.

" _Space?_ "

She hears Bellamy's smile. "Ironic, yeah. But because Raven is a genius, it works. We go back to space, we survive, we wait five years and we come back."

"And then what?"

"We meet up with everyone. Octavia, Kane, Miller, your mom. We all reunite and be happy."

Clarke's eyes burn. "Happy?"

"Happy." Bellamy confirms. Resolute. Believing. "We deserved that. After everything, we deserved that."

She is afraid to ask, but she does. "And us?"

Bellamy's hand finds hers. Their fingers intertwine, curling and gripping together. "We're happy too. _So happy._ We…we love each other. We get the chance we never had before. To be together and to start something. No death around us. No guilt. It's just you and me and the future."

Clarke drops her head against his shoulder. "That sounds nice."

"It is."

"I ruined it."

"Don't talk about that now."

"I can't."

"Clarke-"

"How is this going to end?" Bellamy had locked the door but how long would that last? There was no food in her room, no water. And outside was the angry mob. Blood thirsty and angry to fix a problem that wasn't really a problem. There was no way out of this. After everything they had all been through, even the apocalypse, this was truly the end.

Bellamy tightened his grip. "It's you and me. We're not going down without a fight."

Clarke grins and for once in four years, feels tears drip down her face. She relishes in them rather than mourns. "Tell me how it ends. You and me. Please."

Bellamy answers without hesitation. "We love each other. We grow old together. We have children. Abbey is a proud grandmother. Raven and Octavia fight over the best aunt. Our daughter has blonde hair like you, but my eyes. She's stubborn as hell, more than the both of us put together. She gives Octavia a run for her money for being rebellious. We have a boy too, who looks like me but as your beautiful blue eyes. He's softer, but strong, and has a love for reading like me."

"I like reading." Clarke says indignantly.

Bellamy chuckles and kisses her forehead. She feels tears on his lips.

"We're so happy…it kills me how happy we could have been."

Clarke sobs harshly.

Happy. They could have been happy.

"I love you." Bellamy admits. "I hate you but I love you. So much."

Clarke opens her eyes.

"I love you too."

They kiss. It's like their first kiss in the bunker. Frantic. Desperate. Messy. Overflowing with emotions. It over quicker then it began.

They don't wait to starve or dehydrate.

They go outside the room. They don't go down without a fight. They die the way they lived, fighting tooth and nail. They die next to each other. They die with each other's eye on the other.

The bunker doesn't last. The human race does not survive.

This is it how it ends.


End file.
